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I wish I could suggest that you're kidding, but I know better. I'll do what I can to take your meetings through Friday, but if you aren't here on Monday morning at 9 A.M., you can find another job. Agree to the terms, or you're on your own.
It was difficult enough last time you went MIA for two weeks, after Samantha's incident. We've barely recovered from the damage.
This early, this last-minute, it must be Samantha again. It's not like you have any family that could need you.
I'd think she'd finally be happy now that she's gotten rid of you.
Ryan
I clench my teeth. Ryan is trying to get a rise out of me, but I won't let him. I have to play nice.
I'd really appreciate your help here. We are still business partners, though I would be happy to dissolve the firm. You keep your clients, I keep mine. Hell, you can keep the office, the name, and Janine. I'll reschedule everything with my clients. You won't have to touch a thing.
Luke
He replies quickly.
The only way this partnership is ending is with me owning 100 percent of the business. I'll happily buy your half for twenty percent over its value.
Agree to the terms or agree to leave. You may care more about chasing suicidal women than about your clients, but I'm still interested in running a business.
Ryan
Fine. If that's how it's going to be, that's how it will be.
Fine, I'll be back Monday at 9 A.M. I have my laptop. I'll do everything except take those meetings.
Luke
I hover over the send button. I hate to admit I need Ryan for something, but I do need him to take my fucking meetings.
He's quick with his next reply.
How is Alyssa? She can't be happy about this.
I bet she needs some comforting.
I hope she doesn't seek it in the arms of someone else.
I think we both know that fidelity isn't her strong suit.
Of course, you're used to women cheating on you, aren't you? Maybe it won't be too bad.
Ryan
CHAPTER FIVE
The hospital waiting room is sterile and drab--designed to be as unpleasant as possible. I stop at the plastic reception desk and ask if I can visit Samantha.
The receptionist, a frowning woman in her fifties, looks at me like I'm an idiot. She'd never look at me like this if I was in my suit and tie instead of jeans and a T-shirt. Like that, I'm the dignified professional. Like this, I'm the asshole boyfriend.
"I'll see if Ms. Brooks is accepting visitors." She hands me a form and points to the spaces I need to fill out.
I sit on one of the ugly green chairs and flip through the faded paperback I keep in my pocket. It's Murder on the Orient Express, an Agatha Christie novel I bought at the used bookstore a million years ago. I've still never finished it.
Today isn't looking any better. I can barely read a sentence, much less a chapter. I lean back in the chair, close my eyes, and accept that this is the best rest I'm going to get today.
It feels like forever passes, but the receptionist finally calls me back to the desk.
